


five seconds

by secondfiddle



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 04:45:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7999051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondfiddle/pseuds/secondfiddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>can't get to your heart</p>
            </blockquote>





	five seconds

**Author's Note:**

> WOW I CANT WRITE SUMMARIES FOR SHIT  
> so i write third person for once...what a fucking shock  
> completely unbeta'd yell at me in the comments if i fucked up somewhere

Michael isn't terrified of Trevor, per say. Any person with a tiny bit of brain power would be cautious around someone who dismembers strangers when they get bored. It's not even his fault that he hasn't invited Trevor back to his house since the huge blowup a couple weeks ago, he's a busy man and Michael has his own personal dealings to keep him occupied. The two of them squared off, then fucked off to their own respective stomping grounds. It's easier to deal with Trevor that way. Keep him at a far enough of a distance and give him something that occupies him for a good while.

The true shitstorm hasn't come to destroy him yet. Trevor knows Michael lied, and lied big time. He doesn't know exactly how much Michael has sold to the devil, and it's much better if he doesn't find out. As long as Michael keeps throwing flashy shit near Trevor's general area, such as new jobs and good, heated fights, then that secret will never be unearthed. That's the long term gameplan, until he can get his shit together and figure out how to nicely break the news. 

However, this gameplan didn't include random fucking visits that Michael couldn't plan for ahead of time.

"So, let me get this straight." Michael opens a cupboard and unscrews the whisky bottle, pouring himself three finger before he crosses over into the living room, sitting on the chair across from the couch. "You parked in the middle of a private space, got towed, and now that somehow grants you permission to stay here?"

"Yep!" Trevor's boots tap together as he speaks, spraying dried up mud over the majority of the cream colored couch he's lying down on. "I mean, unless you want to drive three hours to Sandy Shores to drop me off. And something's telling me you don't give enough of a shit to offer that."

Michael's face seems to grow redder with each new grain of mud that's ground into the couch. "Can't one of your lackeys pick you up?"

"I would never just abuse one of my employees like that! They have much more important tasks than to chaffeur me around." Trevor takes both feet off the edge of the couch, and sits them directly on the cushion. "Besides, don't you enjoy your own friend's company?"

Michael glares at him while chugging down the rest of his drink. "Not when they're fucking destroying my shit. That cover is a pain in the ass to dry clean."

"Oh, so you want me to take the shoes off?"

Michael smiles like he's trying his damnest to not beat the shit out of him. "If you would be so kind."

"Jesus Christ, relieve some of that stress you have building up, Mikey, you sound like your gonna burst a blood vessel over there." Trevor plops both feet onto the white carpet, slowly taking them off before he unceremoniously tosses them into the dining room. "Didn't you have some weed in the fridge last time I was here? I heard that really takes the edge off."

"I really fucking hope you have enough money to pay for my fucking carpet."

Trevor scoffs. "It's just a little spot!"

"So apparently drugs do make you devoid of any brain function."

"Not my fucking fault you made literally everything in this stupid fucking house either breakable or white. Now gimme some of that." Michael doesn't even blink when Trevor rips the whiskey bottle straight out of his hands, taking a long chug before placing it back and wiping his mouth with his jacket sleeve. 

"I didn't design the place. Amanda's the one with some sort of creativity when it comes to that kind of shit." Michael fills his glass once more. "I pay for it, she does all the rest."

"Speaking of which." Trevor pops the fridge open, helping himself to a beer, seemingly oblivious to Michael's annoyed huff. "Where the fuck is everybody? Didn't you have a family once? I mean, that is why you fucked me over, right?"

"Cute. Mandy's out with her girlfriends, and last time I checked, my children are old enough to leave my house. Like they really want me to care where they are anyways." Michael oh-so-gracefully shoves Trevor aside, snatching a beer and popping it open. "None of my family life is any of your buisness anyways."

"I'm just trying to at least pretend that I care about your fake fucking life, Michael. You could thank me, to be fucking nice for once." 

Michael barks out a laugh. "Fucking really, T?" He bats his eyelashes. "Thank you oh so much for being a little fucking prick and making fun of my loved ones! You're such a kind soul."

"God, fuck you and your pathetic fucking sarcasm, y'know? You can't even come up with some fucking witty ass comeback anymore."

It plays out like it has all the times before. Michael yells, and Trevor screams ten times louder. Michael slams him into the fridge, and whispers in that low voice that meant that he's one more snide comment away from beating Trevor up. Trevor sneers and gives him one anyways. He braces himself for whatever incoming violence Michael was going to inflict.

Michael grabs Trevor's face with one hand, gripping his cheeks tightly when he almost fucking manually guides his lips to his. And all of a sudden, after one fucking kiss, they're in the eye of the storm, and there isn't a single sound except for maybe Michael's khakis brushing together. 

Perfect opening. Trevor goes along with it, happily opening his mouth for Michael's tongue to run against his teeth, lick up into the roof of his mouth and sending a jolt straight through him, but in a second he's pulled away from a confused Michael before he pushes him back against the marble counter behind them, spinning him around and folding him over, trapping him by shoving his hips against his ass. Right where Trevor wants him.

He relishes in the small mewling whine Michael lets out when he's pushed face down into the marble. "Y'know," he remarks as his hand undoes the metal buckle of Michael's belt before shoving his pants and boxers down to his knees, doing the same to himself. "Ever since I found you here, I've dreamed of bending your smug fucking ass over your countertop and absolutely wrecking you."

Michael laughs. "Funnily enough, I've had the same thoughts about you."

Trevor's in no mood to run all the way upstairs to search for proper lube, so he hacks up enough spit as humanly possible onto his fingers, starting with just one. To be nice. "That's so sweet! I'm glad you think of me so fucking foundly."

Michael tenses up at the intrusion. "God fucking-" He grits his teeth once Trevor actually start moving his finger. "Do you have fucking anything else to smooth this shit out?"

"Oh, quit being a crybaby." He's not up to being sweet and tender, so he quickly moves his way up to two, skipping the part where he lets Michael get used to the feeling and moving the fingers faster than his friend would probably like him to. "That's pretty fucking rich, coming from the guy who used to fuck me dry when he got bored with his wife."

Michael yells, then quickly shuts himself up and lets his head fall to the side. "That only fucking happened twice."

"Yeah, well, at least I'm nice enough to use more fuckin' spit." Speaking of which. He lets go of Michael's hip to hack up a good wad of spit onto his free hand, quickly stroking his cock and grinding into the meaty ass in front of him.

Michael looks back and narrows his eyes. "Nuh-uh. You doing that shit, you're fucking putting a condom on. God knows where the hell that dick's been." 

Trevor growls, but he franctically unbuttons his flannel's breast pocket, praying to God there's one in there-

Jackpot. He fishes it out, ripping it open and rolling it on, throwing the wrapper and hitting Michael square in the face. "There you go, princess. Happy?"

"Fucking estatic. Now hurry up and get this shit out of your system."

"Weird that you'd say that," Trevor says through his teeth, shoving himself into Michael halfway without much of a warning, "Because if I remember, you're the one who shoved your fucking tongue into my mouth and started groping me against the fridge only a few minutes ago. Correct?"

Michael doesn't answer. Barely even breathes. 

Bad idea. Trevor pushes into him, right to the hilt, and at the same time grabs a fistfull of black hair and yanks up, pulling a cursing Michael with it. He  "I fucking asked you a question, Michael."

Michael gasps wetly and swallows. "Me. Fucking me Trevor, I did that."

"Now why would such a proud, straight and narrow family man do such a thing?" Trevor takes this time to set a nice grueling pace of slowing pulling his way out of Michael and raming himself back in, which draws out a soft keening noise from Michael every once in a while, to Trevor's delight. "Seeing that you were pretty fucking keen on making sure your little fucking secret stayed one forever."

"Be honest, T, if you met someone like you you'd be wary of 'em too-" It's been a good while since Michael's got to feel the sensation of being filled to the brim, and the feeling made his brain-to-mouth function completely useless. He tries gripping onto literally anything, his hands pathetically grabbing for the edge of the counter, but his head is forced backwards even more for Trevor to just bite straight down near the side of his neck, and sweet fucking Jesus was the action it going straight into his cock, trapped between marble and his own hips being pinned against the edge.   He laughs weakly, smiling at the man gripping his hair probably hard enough to rip it straight out of his scalp, and his hand starts to rub the head of his cock sneakily. "But you know how much I love myself a giant fucking dose of crazy now and then."

Trevor lets go of Michael's hair to smack his hand away from his cock. "No fucking jerking off."

Michael grits his teeth. "Then how about you actually fucking do something to get me off?"

Trevor hisses like a fucking wild beast and quickly pulls out, grabbing Michael's shoulders to slam him back up against the fridge. He hoists one of Michael's legs up, and Michael hooks it around Trevor's lower back like it's goddamn normal for him to do so. Trevor wastes zero time to shove back into the tight heat he was engulfed in a few seconds ago, but now not only does he have a perfect angle to nail Michael's prostate at the worst times possible, but he gets to watch him bite the edge of his lip, or the inside of the mouth, and Trevor would be lying through his fucking teeth if he said he didn't absolutely love the sight of Michael trying to keep his composure.

Alas, even the master of 'fake it until you make it' can't take it anymore, and Michael starts to moan and curse louder and louder, until on one particularly cruel round of pounding he folds altogether and just lets his head hang in defeat, now bobbing in time to Trevor's thrusts.

 Trevor leans in, lets his forehead rest against Michael's, his speed faultering. His free hand leaves the fridge to wander down and grip Michael's poor neglected dick. That gets Michael's attention. He cries out in both relief and some strange form of joy, looks up, then down at Trevor's still hand, then glares back up, his voice low and exasperated. "Godfuckindamit T, help me out here, I'm gonna fucking-"

"Tell me how much you love this and I'll jack you off."

Those evil snake eyes blink at him. "What?"

"You're not deaf, Mikey. Tell me, in exact detail, how much you enjoy me taking you right here in your fucking kitchen, and I'll jack you off."

Michael all of a sudden looks really uncomfortable, like he's smushed under a slide and being scrutinized under a microscope. He swallows, and a beat of sweat runs down his forehead. "You can't be serious," he finally chokes out, his head falling back to rest against the stainless steel behind him.

Trevor shrugs. "I've got all fucking day."

Michael's face seems to be growing a darker shade of pink by the minute. Embarrassment? And if so, for what? Trevor? His own feelings, shoved down into the deepest pits of his mind, where he hoped they'd never see the light of day again? Either way, Trevor's impatient and his mind wandering away to other places doesn't help the mood lighten one bit. 

Trevor's train of thought is interrupted by a quiet whisper, one that would be completely unnoticed if someone wasn't paying close attention. "You fucking already know, you sadistic asshole."

Trevor's lips curl into a smirk. "Little louder, M?"

Michael snarls. "God, fuck you."

"You wanna cum anytime soon? 'Cause this isn't helping you make it-"

Michael laughs bitterly. "You fucking know and you wanna bask in it. Bask in how every fucking time I get away I need to come crawling back for more. You're so fucking happy you fucking infected me with your own brand of crazy, aren't you?"

This certainly wasn't what Trevor had in mind, but he'll roll with it. He smiles a little bigger now, resuming the normal speed, ghosting his fingers up and down the underside of Michael's cock every now and then. The poor soul's been taunted enough. "You can't lie and say you don't enjoy every second of it."

Michael's hands are holding onto Trevor's shoulders, his hips jerking into Trevor's featherlight touches, trying to get even a bit of friction. Jesus christ, the counter did a better job than this. "I don't even know why I fucking left this, to be-" A hard thrust into Michael's prostate makes him studder and loose his words. "Holy fuck- T, T, T-Trevor I fucking love this, how are you so fucking good at this, why do I love this so much, why do I only love it when you do this shit, god fuck fuck fuck why do I love you so muc-"

Trevor stops his persistent babbling with a lightning fast kiss, his hand now fully gripping Michael's leaking cock and giving that asshole the handjob of his life, twisting each time he goes down, pulling away just to listen to Michael's desperate moaning. He's already came, probably back when he made him stop speaking with his dick (he'd be a liar if he said he wasn't just a touch bit egotistical), so he pulls out, eyes never leaving Michael's flushed face staring right back at him until he finally cums all over Trevor's hand, teeth bitting down into his bloody lip, sinking down to sit on the floor, head resting against the fridge.

Trevor ties off the condom and tosses it into the trash can, wasting zero time before he starts to pick up his clothing thats scattered around the kitchen and the living room. It's not that he's emotionally spent, quite the opposite actually. He knows if he spends one more minute near Michael, pondering whatever spilled out of him mid-fuck, questions will be asked and he's not sure how much he'll like the answers he gets. It's dead silent, save for Michael's heavy breath and the sound of Trevor trying to set some world record of fasting time to ever put on a pair of boots. 

He's done, and he starts to walk out, only to look back behind him at Michael, who hasn't bothered to move. "Same time next week?"

Michael manages a chuckle. "Sure. I'll pencil you in my calendar as soon as possible."

Trevor nods and winks, and resumes to leave. He stops once more, and doesn't turn around, asking Michael's wall a question.

"How much of what you said was true?"

Michael sighs. This was a question filed under 'must have six whiskey sours before answering truthfully'. "More than what I'd like to admit."

Trevor doesn't respond, and walks out the door. It's only then that Michael gets up, and grabs his clothing off of the tile beneath him. He's not sure if he pissed Trevor off or not, but either way, he wants to forget the last two minutes happened. He snatches a wine bottle out of the fridge and treads up the stairs.

 

Trevor feels like he's walking on air. 

He knows exactly what's happening, just not what set that reaction off. Either way, he's hardly even aware of what he's doing. He walks straight outside, down a few blocks, and almost gets run over by a black sports car. He hardly even flinches. He throws the douchey yuppie out, hops in, and doesn't even get some delight out of hearing the wet crunch of tire on top of ribcage. He knows the way back home from here, that's not hard. He still takes every wrong turn, like he's never fucking been here before.

He hears that voice repeating over and over again, vibrating through his skull. Michael can't love you. He won't love you. He's not your friend, he wasn't ever your friend. Nothing is going to work between you too ever again, so don't get any ideas. He'll never come close to loving you as much as you love him. It gets louder as he tries to tune it out, and the radio sounds like it's far away. 

He shuts off the car once he's back at the apartment, and the thoughts are still swirling around, all talking at once. He slams the door behind himself, and he finally lets it go, screaming at the top of his lungs as he hurtles the lamp on the side table closest to him against the wall in front of him. The thought of someone else being home doesn't even occur to him as he then picks up the table and slams it into the wall too, a table leg flying back and hitting his shin. He stalks over to the living room, and chucks the bowl sitting on the coffee table into the window for good measure. The window miraculously doesn't break, but the bowl does, sending porcelain shards scattering across the carpet. He sits down once he finally sees the plans he scribbled down the night before on the table, a perfect distraction. Despite knowing the gameplan down to the most trivial of details, he grabs it anyways, hands shaking slightly as he goes over it once more.

Anything to get his mind off things.


End file.
